Out of the Frying Pan Into the Fire (Season One)
by TaylorSmiles
Summary: In a world obsessed with the Doctor, Sage is on the outside looking in. Then tragedy strikes, Sage wakes up somewhere all too familiar, and suddenly things make even less sense than before.
1. Chapter 1

There is one thing a person must understand before delving into the world's most talked about, obsessed over, and loved story. Given the circumstances of our time, you know you can't avoid it forever. In fact, if you weren't raised and brainwashed already, you're doing better than 90 percent of Earth's population. So, once you've succumbed to the force that is Doctor Who, there is one thing you must keep forever in mind.

The Doctor is not real.

Maybe aliens exist somewhere out there. Maybe time travel is just on the cusp of our reach. Maybe one day a black hole can lead us into another dimension, or the barrier between time and space and reality itself can be opened. But The Doctor is nothing but a made up character on a television show.

He's both lovable and loathsome and fixes the broken despite being irrefutably broken himself, and it's easy to be consumed by his changing, yet always interesting persona. But the Doctor isn't real. It would be wise, in and out of daily life, to remember that fact.

But alas, in our obsessive and fantasy craving world, such an illusion is hard to break. So much so, that our world has completely fooled itself into believing a lie.

The Doctor is real and, someday soon, he'll come for us.

. . .

"The day after tomorrow." The young woman picks up her stack of paper towels, placing them on the checkout counter. She turns back to her partner. "Around one. In the afternoon, I mean." She shoots him a sly smile and leans in with a delighted spark in her eyes. "Count on it."

Her friend scoffs as he helps her lift an extra large bag of dog food onto the checkout counter. "Are you daft? Everyone knows he doesn't show up on Sundays." Then he throws out, "He could come tonight, right on the stroke of midnight."

She starts to frown at the blunt insult, but her lips turn up and betray the switched line of thought. "Which one do you think it'll be?"

He smirks, picking up a jar of pickles. "Twelve, of course. Reckon he'll look exactly like Sir Capaldi. They must got a psychic as a casting director, just so we'd know what to look for when he comes."

I snort. I had tried not to. I tried to keep it in, and I had been succeeding too, but you know when sometimes, no matter how hard you try to keep in your sneeze, it bursts out anyway? It shoots out loud, and wet, and obnoxious? Yeah. Exactly like that.

The Queen had been knighting every actor to play the Doctor for years now and my exact thoughts on the subject didn't help any at keeping my reaction in. It never matters if the actors are any good — though they always are. No one even bothers to wait for their first broadcasted episode. As soon as the actor is announced, they're dragged over to her majesty.

She's cute with her little, grumpy, old lady face. She treats her daughter-in-law alright and doesn't try to use her connections for anything selfish and self-serving. She's smart too, funny without really trying, and man, those adorable little outfits of hers sure are charming.

God save the queen and all that. I've British-ed up in that regard. Doesn't mean she's immune to the Doctor Who obsession. He makes everyone a little stupid.

I regret moving to London almost every second of my newfound life. Not saying the "Doctor Love" isn't just as strong back in the States. Of course it is, it's strong everywhere, even in the least developed of countries where televisions are scarce.

You don't need cable to watch it. Channel One. Doctor Who. twenty-four seven, in order. If you've no TV, they have novels and comic books to tide you over.

That show, though. People treat it like a religion. In the dark areas of the world, people kill over it. There's statues in every major city. Government funding is spent more on researching the science behind the show than helping the underprivileged. There's linguists still trying to break down the Gallifreyan language.

People treat you like a pariah if you don't believe. Landlords don't have to rent to you. Jobs can fire you. People get stabbed in abandoned parking lots and barely get a week's worth of investigation.

Here, where the patriotic pride is strongest, there's fines that cost more than parking tickets. They force you into these weird history classes and push you into marathons to drive the point home.

This world is crazy. It's like one long, ridiculous dream. The kind you wake up from and laugh about because it's so outrageous. No one, but a few seem to realize it, though.

The couple's heads snap in my direction. "So you're one of those, are you? A nonbeliever?" She spits the words out like they hold a horrid taste, even when I know for a fact that she has Brussels sprouts in her cart. Not a more horrid taste than that.

I smile, showing teeth. "I just find it funny, is all."

I let the pause simmer between the three of us as I ring up a group of cereal cups. The pause is initially for dramatics, but as it lingers I have the perverse urge to leave it at that and let them do what they see fit. How far will the happy couple take it?

I have trouble at first, but eventually I'm able to shift the dog food around enough to find the barcode, and I scan that too. I slide it to the end of the counter. I pick up the tub of custard, because of course they have custard. Women do tend to favor the custard loving one, don't they?

"And what's that you find so funny?"

The woman has a clear warning in her voice, her eyes daring me to say what she just knows I'm thinking. What happened to the happy, bouncing little fan girl from earlier? Who is this hissing badger?

I can see she has her hand on her phone, waiting. It's a replica of Rose Tyler's and I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Smart phones have games and the internet, but she'd rather a cheaply made, overpriced, outdated replica.

Maybe I shouldn't have played with fire, but it's too late now to take it back. "That Twelve will come on the stroke of midnight." I pop out a little giggle to send the excuse home and try not to groan at my own pathetic existence.

Silence lingers for half a beat too long. I have half a mind to book it out the door and hope for the best. I know that I can't. I'm used to running, but only in the metaphorical sense.

The woman lets out a peel of laughter. I jump back as she latches onto the counter for support. "That's hilarious, that is."

I blink down at her, eyes wide, as she thumps her fist on the counter.

Her friend rolls his eyes. "It isn't that funny." He glances at me as I give them their total and hand their groceries back to them.

"Thank you, come again." I call after them as they leave, the bells above the doors chiming behind them.

I sigh, untying the ridiculous pig faced apron from my waist. I lean back on the counter, fingers massaging my temples.

I realize now why people become shut-ins.

I turn off my checkout light and stalk over to the back room where my manager has been hiding out all day. Nothing unusual there.

I'm tempted to barge in. Really, really, really tempted. I'm frustrated, restricted, and completely tired of everyone's obsessive bullshit. But I need this job. That single fact, however, makes me all the more tempted. Screw the job, what I needed is the money.

I should just go back to hustling full time.

I clench and unclench my fists, breathing through my nose as I try to calm myself. I check into the sounds around me with a slow, calming breath.

The ringing from the checkout counters, the whining of a cranky, tired baby down aisle five, the soft hum of the radio playing through the loudspeaker, and the shrill cry of "EXTERMINATE!" coming from inside my manager's office.

A vein nearly bursts in my forehead.

I take another deep, steadying breath; exhale slowly, and knock.

Keep calm, Sage. Bludgeoning your boss is bad. Violence is a no go. You're not a kid anymore.

When I stop hearing war cries and hurried screwdriver buzzing, and can only hear the flipping of paper against paper, I take it as my cue to enter.

The man behind the desk is not my manager. When he hears me, he looks up and gives me a smile that doesn't reach the crinkle of his eyes.

He's the polar opposite of Seamus, a portly middle aged man whose acne showcases his habits and the imbalances they inflict upon his hormones. A guy with a constant cigarette pack in his breast pocket, and the type to cycle through the same three shirts. All with permanent stains.

Unlike Seamus, this man is tall, his shoulders reaching far over the high back of the office chair, and guardrail thin. He looks shiny in his immaculate suit and bendy as his body seems to almost wilt to one side as he stands.

There are similarities between the two men, though. Their brown hair, and the oddly small size of their ears. That, and the fact that Doctor Who had been on what was supposed to be a live running of the store's security footage.

"Seamus was fired, then?"

The words slip out like most of what I say. My brain to mouth filter has a hole the size of Jupiter.

It's rude, but I've been hoping for it all three months I've worked here. I hate watching him laze around in his office and hide from customers. Hide even more from employees needing their bi-weekly check.

Did management finally wise up?

I can understand, at least a bit, with the obsession with Doctor Who being as strong as it is. Yet, even a child learns when to work and when to obsess over The Doctor. Seamus has made it so far down the deep end of obsession there's just no pulling him back.

The new man's grip hangs tight to a stack of papers, but they loosen as his fragile smile cracks. The papers fall along with it, a muted thump on the desk.

"Oh, no." He comes around the desk and leans on it as he drags his hands down his sunken in face. "No, my brother died last night. During his sleep."

I feel numb to the news. It's a usual reaction for me. I've dealt with death before. Some far apart. Some in groups of threes. Drug overdoses, suicide, old age. Some, wrong place, wrong time.

What kind of person does it make me, knowing that I'm not going to cry even when it does hit me?

"Sorry to hear. Are you the new manager?" It is a family owned store, after all. "We had agreed beforehand on an extra amount for payday, because I worked some overtime last month. He wrote the exact amount on a note. It should be somewhere . . ." I look at the desk with a raised brow and wave a hand at the mess on top. ". . . in all that."

"Yes – name's Finnegan," he offered. "Just filling in for now. And I apologize for its tardiness."

I hesitate, latching onto my wrist and tapping the veins. "Well, given the circumstances."

He frowns, sifting through the papers on the desk, and picks up a small, lime Post-it. He glances at it and sticks it to the computer monitor.

"No, no." He plucks a checkbook and pen from his blazer pocket. "Can't punish you. It isn't your fault. The doctors warned him of heart disease, but Seamus always has been the stubborn sort." He pauses, his lips thinning for a bare second, then shakes his head. "Had been."

I push forward. "I, uh . . ."

He looks up. "Yes?"

"I had an agreement with Seamus." I start, but hesitate. He nods for me to continue. "Cash only."

"Why?" He looks confused. "You get paid without it being documented?"

I look down at my feet, shifting from one foot to the other with a hand to the back of my neck. "Extenuating circumstances – look, it's a little personal."

"Seamus agreed to that? Really?" He sighs and mumbles under his breath.

I hold back a groan, realizing where this is about to go. To shit. "I can come back another time."

He sets down the checkbook and nods. "Please. Please do. I'll have it ready for you by Monday." He turns, grabs the old, taped together TV remote, and hits play.

I watch as he drops it on the desk. It bounces once, before tilting to one side and falling flat on its face, a battery popping up.

The screen that should be telling him whether or not we have any issues going on in the shop is filled with The Doctor. Who cares if there's a robbery, shooting, fire, or anything else that can possibly go wrong? The Doctor will save us, right?

I shut the door behind myself and sigh as I let my head fall back against it. I check in, hearing war cries, faint buzzing, and the sobs of a grown man.

I groan, thinking of all the sobbing I, myself, will be doing tomorrow morning if I don't get my hands on some quick money.

I clock out, hang up the pig print apron, and start my way towards the nearest bar with my stomach in my throat.

. . .

The small, red coin purse flies high, almost hitting the ceiling fan, before it lands in my palm with a heavy thunk. The weight is good, familiar. I grin, tossing it up again.

Not a single coin is in that baby. The bar — sorry, _pub_ — had been extra busy last night, given the start of the new season of Doctor Who and all. If there is anything the old doctor is good for, it's a distraction.

After only thirty minutes of playing pool, I'd gotten what I had come for. Though I missed the game, the thrill was long gone. Neither the math nor the easy money was enough to make it interesting.

I didn't bother to stick around for anything more. I may not be the most honest person out there, but I don't swindle money for the fun of it. Hell, I don't do anything for the fun of it, these days.

The loud, staccato knock I've been waiting for all night finally comes. I stop myself from cringing at the thought of what's to come. That possibility is on hold now. Lucky me.

I rise from my spot on the living room floor, dusting off my faded jeans as I go. My bare feet smack against linoleum as I make it to the door and pull it open.

"You've got my money?" Clint's slurred, sandpaper tenor greets me as usual, a deep set frown burrowing into his hard cut wrinkles.

The middle aged man is full of sharp lines. Shadows curl into the leathery wrinkles of his skin like swarms of gnats tucking into a caved in fruit.

I did that to him. Before me, he looked his age.

I roll my eyes and hold up the coin purse. He peers at it for a minute, the cogs in his head needing a good douse of oil and tinkering before they can turn at the average human speed again.

"Well if I didn't know any better, I'd say there's actually money in that crummy old thing."

You're a crummy old thing, I want to say.

"What, did you stuff it with tissue like you do your tits?"

I almost shove the coin purse down his throat. I've been doing better with getting his money. I don't need his approval, but some improved manners would be nice.

The corners of my lips pull taut, but I otherwise ignore what I can. "It's money." I pull the zipper back and dump the wad of cash into my hand. "See?"

He catches it the second it touches my skin, reflexes quick for someone with not a sober bone in his body. He leers at me. "Must be getting better with that fat arse of yours, getting that amount of cash in such short notice."

I ignore the comment, even if some of it sticks in the back of my head. "You come every month on the same day, it's hardly short notice."

"Hustled some sad sack in pool, then." He guesses, sending me a sneer.

I cross my arms. "Maybe I did. And trust me, it had nothing to do with my ass. It's all in the math."

"You always were good at math."

I frown, "If I was really good at math I wouldn't be needing to give you this, now would I?" I shrugged.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I stare at him, not really wanting to bring up past shit just to help a bad joke. Like I'm gonna say "If I would have done the math and kept my mouth shut, we would've stayed one big happy family." Yeah, right. Like I'll let him know I miss anything that has to do with him.

"What?"

I shoot him a withering look, my hand practically finding its own way to the door, ready to slam it into his hooked nose. "You have your money, Clint. You can go now."

"Without counting it first? What kind of businessman would I be?"

"Fine, count your money, then leave."

His cloudy gaze turns down on me, a dark shadow cast from his heavy brow. "You should watch that tongue of yours, Sage." There's an intent behind his tone and I know exactly what he means.

I shrug, nodding slowly in agreement. "Probably."

"I've got a lot of people who'd just die to have what you got." He scowls. "People who'd offer a whole lot more than what you're really worth."

I put a mocking hand to my chest. "And yet you're helping little old me? How generous."

He rolls his eyes, flicking the notes in his hands as he counts. "You know damn well why I'm still helping you. It has nothing to do with being generous. If it weren't for Ellie you'd be dead right now and I'd be rich."

I grimace. "Ain't that the truth."

He looks up from the bills, slaps me on the shoulder with an easy, sleazy smile on his face, and shoves the money in his pocket. "Seems all here."

"Good, you can go then." I shoot him a gummy smile.

He sees it, rolls his eyes, and leaves with a promise to come back next month.

I briefly contemplate testing if the climate in the North Pole is hospitable.

. . .

It's dark under the bed. The flashlight does almost nothing to light what I need. I clench it between my teeth, then unclench. It drops to the floor as I search around my pockets for the extra batteries I've brought.

"Sage —"

I shush her, replacing the batteries, and shove the flashlight back in my mouth as I scoot closer to my target.

The bed's hydraulics system is so outdated, I'm surprised it hasn't sparked a fire. So I'd ventured to fix what the hospital refused to, claiming a lack of funding. All I needed was a few tools and a motor and I'd beat even the newest version on the market.

"What are you doing?"

I roll my eyes, trying to talk through the flashlight between my teeth. "Upgrade."

She giggles, "Please don't turn me into a Cyberman. My face is too pretty for that."

I spit the flashlight out again, taking a Velcro strap from my butt pocket and securing it to the frame above my head. This job isn't going to be a silent one like I'd hoped.

"Trust me, Princess, they'll have nothing on you when I get done." I joke back, adjusting the light to get a better view.

"Seriously," She laughs. "What are you doing to my bed?"

"Like I said, upgrade."

I feel the bed shift above me, its springs squeaking. Eleanor's head pops into view, her fingers clutched to the mattress for balance.

"Is it the sort of upgrade I'm going to have to hide from the nurses?"

I stare at her. Her long, curly hair frames her face like a cloud as she looks down at me. The sun shines through the window and illuminates her in a golden glow. Her lips are laughing, and her eyes are sparkling with mirth. She's not just putting on a mask. She's happy. She's not in pain today. Good.

I cough, snapping my head away as I concentrate back on the bed. "Probably. I'm sure they'd get suspicious if you were suddenly comfortable." I scoff. "Heaven forbid."

"You can't exactly blame them." There's a sadness in Eleanor's voice I choose to ignore.

"I can blame whoever the hell I want to blame, thank you. It's my right as a human being after all."

"Sage."

"You're not your mother, but they refuse to see past that."

Her laugh is soft, happy even, and its sound reminds me of how innocent she still is. After everything she's been through, Eleanor is still able to smile and mean it.

"Everyone judges. It's only natural. I know you always say not to judge a book by its cover, but that's just what we do. We see first, interpret second, then ask questions later, and by then an opinion's already been formed that's hard to let go of. I can't blame them for doing what comes from a long seeded survival instinct."

I sigh. "You're right, but here? Your point is null and void."

She gasps with a laugh. "You're just as judgey as you claim them to be, judging them for judging me."

I snort. "Who are you, Doctor Seuss?"

"Who?"

I roll my eyes. I should just go ahead and give up on society before I give it anymore small expectations. "Never mind. The world's obsessive, narrow view of entertainment is not important right now. What is, however, is eating your breakfast and watching TV, and letting me continue with my work."

She grumbles something I don't bother to hear, and turns the television on. My lips quirk up when I hear the soft clanking of utensils. The smile doesn't fade for the rest of the day, either. Even through Ellie's Doctor Who marathon.

. . .

"You're late."

I glance up, then back down again, wiping what oil and rust I can from my hands and onto the parts of my jeans covered by the garish pink apron around my waist.

"You're observational skills continue to astound me."

Tiffany plops one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. It is a slim, shapely hip too, one I'd probably be jealous and irritated over if I had the mind to compare our two polar opposite bodies. It'd be like comparing a duck to a screwdriver.

"I'm assistant manager, love. It's my job to notice these things. If you had a reliable car, maybe this wouldn't happen."

"It's Sage, not love." I walk over to my register. "Besides, I'm working on the ride situation. That's why I'm late."

"I can see that." She glances at the remnants of grease on my hands. She clicks her tongue at me as she slinks back behind her own cash register.

I throw a look towards the windows at the front of the store and watch as cars pass and people walk from store to store. Friends, colleagues, families. A muscle ticks in my jaw as I tear my eyes away.

It isn't much longer before I'm called to the back room. My first instinct is to run. I'd been late and I'm not much of one to handle shouting. However, the possibility the temporary manager has remembered our last discussion moves me forward.

He has.

On the way home, I contemplate on either saving the extra money I've acquired or buying Eleanor a gift. After all, she deserves one.

. . .

I'm put on edge the second I make it to the lobby. The nurses, whose eyes are usually sharpened my way, and whose lips are supposed to be pulled tight, are smiling. Walking forward, my skin prickles and my stomach sinks.

Their eyes are avoiding me, they're hands are unusually busy with folders and papers, and they're smiling. The nurses are smiling. They never smile.

Either my latest gift of comfort is the final straw before they officially ban me from the premises – after this one last visit, of course – or something, the worse case scenario, has happened. I hate the idea of both, but I prefer the former.

I know I shouldn't have been so obvious about my dislike of the staff. I shouldn't have let them get to me. I don't regret making Eleanor as comfortable as possible, but I regret some of my motives behind it.

I loved seeing their baffled frowns when I'd fixed the adjoining bathroom's plumbing and took away their joy in having Eleanor struggle all the way down the hall just to pee. I enjoyed the way they bristled when I upgraded her out of date bed. The one they claimed to be standard issue, despite the fact that I'd seen top of the line technology in other patients' rooms. I did everything in my power to make her feel special because Eleanor was special.

But these idiots can't see past the people who raised her. Both had paid their dues. Her dad wasn't the best of people, but he treated his daughter like a princess, especially since her mother was killed.

I fight against the urge to quicken my pace. I don't want to know. I have half a mind to turn around and ignore the situation as best I can. If this is what I hope with all my soul that it isn't? I'd rather remain blissfully ignorant for as long as I can manage.

When I finally make it to Eleanor's room, I'm met with a timid and placating smile. My feet pause just inside the door frame.

"Now, don't be mad – "

"What the hell happened to your face?" I jerk forward, a mixture of relief and something else, something altogether malicious shredding through my chest. "Who did this to you?"

"No one." Her voice is slow and mixed with honey. She's lying through her teeth. "I tripped on my way to the bathroom."

I slide off my shoulder bag and sit down beside her, the bed creaking with the added weight. She gives me a serene little smile, despite the pain her split lip and swollen eye are sure to be causing her.

"Eleanor." I warn.

She sighs. "You are capable of a lot. You can build a car out of a few screws and a paperclip – " she ignores my snort "and you can fight the most gruesome of foe," She takes hold of my hand. "But you can't protect me twenty-four-seven. You don't need to protect me twenty-four-seven."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." I scoff. "And obviously I do need to."

"No, you don't." She rolls her eyes. "Don't you think you deserve a break from being a knight in shining armor?"

"No."

She sighed. "Well, I do."

"Are you taking away my visitation rights?"

She laughs like I'm joking. "I'm telling you not to worry."

I turn, falling down beside her on the bed, and sigh. "There's no way I won't worry."

She grabs my hand. "I know. You're the biggest worry wort I know."

"And I can't promise my fists won't take on a mind of their own." I grin. "So sorry if a nurse or two shows up one day a bit cranky."

She laughs. "How about a bit of telly?" When I don't give a reaction, she continues with a squeeze to my hand. "I hear there's a Harry Potter marathon going."

"Well," I offer a small smile. "it can't hurt."

Four hours later, I'm sobbing like a baby. Something about a sad fictional character always gets to me. Sympathetic crying is my kryptonite.

"He'll be back, you know that," She reassures me.

I sniff. "I know that. But look at him! He sure as hell doesn't know that." I turn to her, "But does he care? Does he run away?"

She smiles at me. "He sacrifices himself."

I nodded. "Damn right, he does."

We sit in silence, the end of the marathon drawing near.

Just as the green light leaves from Voldemort's wand, a commercial comes on. Eleanor laughs at my groan.

I turned to look at her. "Ellie."

"Hmm?"

"You really think I'm your knight in shining armor?"

She nudges me, "'Course I do."

"I don't have a sword, though." I chuckle. "Or a wand."

"You don't need one." She looks at me, catching my eyes. "You have your hands." She squeezes my hand, then pulls it up to her lips, grazing my knuckles. She gives me a Mona Lisa smile, pulling my hand up to kiss the pulse point on my wrist. "They can protect me just fine."

I blink at her, mouth dry without a single word coming to mind. How does one react to that? What am I supposed to do with that?

I spring up, almost falling off the bed.

She smirks, watching me as I rush from the bed. I reach into my bag, pulling out a small, white box. "Here." I can't look at her, so I just place it on the side table. "I gotta go. There was a, uh, a part for the car that I . . . uh."

"See you later?"

"Yep — Totally — Bye!" I scoop up my bag and make a run for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello All!**

**As I'm sure you've guessed, I don't own anything Doctor Who related.**

**Thank you for reading.**

* * *

A month passes. My car is up and running. Finally found the right transmission. Cost an arm and a leg. Had to lower myself to the bowels of hustling once again.

At least it was something. With the extra money I bought Eleanor that drawing tablet she always wanted. That was something. Just the look on her face was worth the sleepless nights of playing pool.

The new manager is a pain in the ass, but at least he pays attention to the store. He's nothing like Seamus. He's strict and a tightwad, and has threatened more than once to call immigration on me. But at least he keeps paying me under the table.

Tiffany continues to hound me about my tardiness. I continue to not give a shit.

Eleanor gets worse.

The doctors don't care, as usual. There's nothing they can do, even if they did. She needs that heart transplant and she's been on the list so long, there's no hope left.

"For the last time, no!"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to take a calming breath. "Ellie —"

"I'm not letting dad bring you to some black market surgeon. I don't want your heart. Who even knows if it'll work properly?"

I grab her wrist and shove it to the right side of my chest. "Feel that?" I grit my teeth. "It works fine."

She yanks her hand away. "But can you survive without it?"

I can't look her in the eye. "I don't know."

"Exactly."

I grab for her hand again, but she pulls away. I swallow back the tears. "Please."

She shakes her head. "I can't."

. . .

When Clint shows up one morning, tears in his eyes, gun in hand — I know the decision's been made for us.

The metal table is cold and unforgiving. Eleanor grasps at my hand, lying on the table beside mine.

This is the one time Clint doesn't treat her like a princess. In this instance, she's a prisoner — quite literally chained up in a cell.

"It'll be okay, Princess."

Eleanor shakes her head. "I don't want this."

I swallow thickly. "I know."

I squeeze her hand and thread my fingers through hers.

The surgeon walks in, face obscured by a hospital mask one can buy at the drug store down the street. I glare his way.

Sure, I want her to have my heart. It's the only thing it's any good for, after all. But not like this. Never like this.

Clint has his head in his hands, knees on elbows. He's staring at the floor, unable to look Eleanor in the eyes. For good reason, too. It's the first time she's ever raised her voice at her father and he didn't take it well.

The surgeon gives Eleanor a shot of something in her IV that makes her pass out. Good. At least she won't be in pain.

He glances at me and shrugs. "Sorry, that's the only one I had."

I breathe out through my nose, bracing myself. "Whatever."

. . .

Eleanor didn't make it.

The thought echoes as they let me bleed out, not even bothering to sew me up properly. There's just staples, hanging haphazardly from where a few didn't catch enough skin.

I can't find it in me to care.

Eleanor didn't make it.

There's something about the way Clint glares my way that I accept. My heart wasn't good enough. She rejected it. Her body couldn't even make the damn thing beat.

I close my eyes and breathe.

Just breathe through the pain, Sage. You've been through this before. She's just another in a long list of the dead.

But she isn't.

I can feel myself slipping and it takes everything in me to care.

Eleanor didn't make it.

. . .

The pain hits me. It's not physical. By some miracle, my chest doesn't feel like it's been ripped and cracked open. It's a blessing and a curse in one.

In some place that runs deeper than my heart. Deeper than the very marrow of my bones. The pain is all there.

I deserve every minute of it.

Damn it, if I could have just — I don't know. Done something. Anything. Resisted more. Punched Clint in his stupid face. Woke up on the right side of the bed. Prayed.

But no. I didn't.

Now I lie here and I can't figure out how I'm still alive. The gaping hole in my chest is something I feel on a primal level. Whether it's the missing organ or Eleanor, I can't tell.

I sigh and try to sit up.

I find I'm already sitting, as the vertigo eases.

It's dark, not at all like the bright florescent lit room I was in. Sweat is trailing down my brow and collecting at my lip. It's hot. Really hot. The metal behind my back sears into my skin.

I'm bare from the waist up. I'm not surprised. Not completely. They took my shirt for the surgery.

When I try to stand — put my hands out to brace myself — metal clinks together. I'm chained to the floor. There's marks around my wrists as if I'd spent days fighting with my shackles.

I only remember the last few minutes.

A sound echoes off to the side and in walks two shop mannequins. Which, given, is surprising in and of itself. Then I see who they're dragging in and my stomach tries to escape via my throat.

"Mickey?"

He glances up and cries. "Sage!"

I don't bother to ask how he knows my name. Really, I couldn't talk if I tried.

None of this is real.

It can't be.

. . .

I yank against my chains. Not really to break them, I guess. I know my strength has nothing on iron. More like, just for the sound of metal scratching and clanking on concrete. It drowns out Mickey's cries . . . Sort of.

"Mickey, calm the fuck down."

My input doesn't help.

I roll my eyes and slump back against the railing. Its heat presses into my bare back and I huddle closer in on myself. It tears at my stitches, but I can't really afford to give a shit. I'm too numb to really feel it. Which is probably a bad sign.

It's ironic, but I can't help but wonder. When will the Doctor show up? It's been at least an hour since I woke up. Thirty minutes since they threw Mickey the Idiot down here.

Who still won't shut up.

I glare his way.

He glares back. Not like I can exactly blame the guy for his moaning and groaning. The everyday, normal person probably would be scared.

I'm not exactly normal. What with the hippy mother and having two hearts — which is terrifying if I am where I think I am — and let's not forget the fact that I died and ended up in my own personal hell.

I sigh, tilting my head to the side. "Look, Mickey. It'll be fine, okay?"

"What do you mean it'll be fine? We've been kidnapped by shop dummies."

"At least we're not down there with the lava monster."

That doesn't help calm him.

"I just can't believe it. We've been looking for you everywhere, Rose and me."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, watching him. "How long?"

He shrugs. "Almost a whole two days."

I nod.

I should be dead. Maybe I am and this is just some out of body hallucination as my brain stutters to a stop. Hours of dreaming takes nothing but a split second. So, if I think about it, it's possible.

But the heat in my back feels so real.

. . .

"I seek audience with the Nestene Consciousness under peaceful contract according to convention 15 of the Shadow Proclamation!"

The booming voice makes me jump. I twist around, only to see the Doctor. In the flesh. The very bane of my existence.

Mickey turns too, eyes catching sight of Rose.

"Mickey! Sage!"

She practically flies down the stairs to get to us. I watch as the Doctor scoffs and rolls his eyes. Then they catch mine and he takes in all of me. His lips thin, eyes dark and stormy. I can see it even from several feet away.

"Oh my god, what did they do to you?"

Rose is at my side in seconds, pulling off her jacket. I look up at her as she fumbles with shaking it off her arms.

I don't know our relationship. But it seems close. She wouldn't have tears in her eyes if not.

She drapes her jacket over me to cover my chest and kneels down in front of me, eyes widening on my chain and shackles.

I shrug. "Apparently they don't like it when you fight back."

Her hands tremble. "You're bleeding."

I nod. "I noticed."

She sniffs, wiping at her tears.

Rose always was Ellie's favorite character. They're so much alike. Where it really counts.

Mickey looks shame faced, and offers me his jacket. I can't exactly put either of their kind gestures on, considering my hands are cuffed to the ground. But at least the thought counts.

"That thing down there, the liquid." Mickey gulps, looking over his shoulder. "Rose, it can talk!"

She wraps an arm around me. "Oh, you are stinking."

I snort. "Thanks."

The Doctor climbs down to our level, looking us over. Once again, our eyes catch.

"Doctor," she turns around. "They kept him alive. And look, I didn't tell you, but my sister —"

My eyes widen.

"Can we keep the domestics outside?" He turns a corner. "Thank you."

She growls. "That —"

"Rose," I lift my hands as far as they'll go and snag the hem of her shirt. "Get used to it."

She glares. Then her face falls. "I can't believe I found you."

She hugs me. Just glomps down in a bear hug. It's nice, really. To be hugged again. I never thought it was possible.

. . .

The Doctor adresses the Nestene like he did the millions of times this episode played.

I watch on in numb silence as events unfold. The Doctor gets caught. The villain almost wins. Rose saves the day. Still, something explodes.

I stare up at the Doctor in a haze as he squats before me. I shouldn't be surprised he's helping me escape. That's what he does, after all.

Still, for him to be so close — to be so gentle in releasing me from my chains. It's not something a hateful bastard would do. Then again, he doesn't realize that's what he is to me.

He doesn't realize he's ruined an entire dimension out there just by his mere existence.

Doesn't realize he killed Eleanor.

He looks me in the eyes as the shackle unlatches, and it's almost like he does.

We tear our eyes away and Rose helps me to the TARDIS.

. . .

Next thing I know, I'm in the med bay. It's different than the back alley surgery room. It's sterile for one thing. There's actually a hospital bed for two. And there's an actual, qualified doctor in the room for third.

I'm guided to the bed and made to sit. All in silence. I follow along.

I can't really pin point why. As much as I resent the man, I also trust him. Hard not to trust someone you know so well.

Rose lingers by his side as he looks me over. It's hard not to hide myself from his penetrating gaze. That look could crumple buildings with it's force.

"What did they do to you?"

I look up to Rose. "Nothing."

She shakes her head. "That's not nothing, Sage."

I glance down at myself, cataloging. It's not so bad. I mean, it's the worst I've ever had and the pain is gone, which is a bad sign, definitely — but it's not something to cry over. At least I can't feel the surgeon tearing at me anymore, scraping at bone. I almost threw up from the sensation back then.

We both watch as the Doctor pulls out some tub of green gel and dips his fingers in.

I flinch at his touch. Everything in me wants to jump off the bed and run. To lick my wounds in private. I've never been so bare.

Suddenly, I can feel again. The pain keeps me rooted. The torn muscle, the stretched skin, the itch. There shouldn't be an itch, should there?

Ten minutes later he claps his hands, looking satisfied. "All done. Good as new."

Sure enough, my skin looks as if nothing ever happened. Unfortunately, the hollow feeling in my chest betrays the truth.

. . .

Rose latches onto my arm like I'll run away. She has good intuition.

She follows Mickey out the TARDIS and I tumble out after her. Mickey runs off without a second glance, straight for a pile of pallets to hide behind.

Rose just rolls her eyes and pulls out her cellphone. I can't hear a thing she says over the roaring in my ears.

I take in a shallow breath at the appearance of the London back alley. My chest is still screaming at me, pulling double time to make up for what was once there.

The Doctor may have fixed my torn stitches and fused my skin back together like new, but he didn't fix me. How could he? How was he to know I had two hearts?

Back where I was before, such a thing was an honor. To be born with such a rare abnormality. It wasn't the most uncommon thing. It happened about as often as quintuplets. And people envied it. All thanks to the Doctor.

I kept it hidden for a long time too. I was taught at an early age by mum, that having two hearts wasn't really the honor it was made out to be. It was a death sentence.

I pray he never finds out. At least not until I figure out what it could possibly mean here. It could mean anything with Time Lords in existence.

"Nestene Consciousness?"

I jump at the voice behind me and turn around. The Doctor stands there, eyes on Rose, but flickering like he's forcing them away from something else.

His eyes don't match his big grin when he snaps his fingers. "Easy."

"You were useless in there," Rose starts, eyes teasing. She takes my hand and the familiarity in the gesture makes me pause. "You'd be dead if it weren't for me."

"Yes I would. Thank you."

His eyes twitch to mine and it's like he's knee deep in my psyche with just the look. I take a step back, whether on purpose or not, there's no telling. But my heart is racing in overtime, trying to make up for it's lost mate. I scratch at my chest, expecting pain, but get nothing but nails on skin.

My cheeks warm, pulling Mickey's coat tighter around me and zipping it up even further.

"Right then." The Doctor claps his hands. He looks to Rose and the word tilts back on its axis. "I'll be off, unless, er, I don't know, you could come with me. This box —" He gives the TARDIS an affectionate pat. "— isn't just a London hopper, you know. It goes anywhere in the universe free of charge."

Rose, as tempted as she looks, shakes her head no. She squeezes my hand, reminding me that we're still linked. "I just found my sister, Doctor. I was looking everywhere for her."

"Well, she can come." He scratches at his ear, looking me over. I can tell he wants to say more. Something mildly rude probably, as is common of this incarnation.

"Don't!" Mickey reappears, clinging to Rose's legs. "He's an alien — he's a thing!"

The Doctor scowls. "Him, though. He is not invited." His expression changes to an altogether lighter one. "What do you think? You could stay here, fill your life with work and food and sleep, or you could go . . ." He licks his teeth. "anywhere."

"Is it always this dangerous?"

He looks in her eyes, completely honest. "Yeah."

Rose looks like she wants to go. I know she does. Hell, a whole universe out there knows she does. So I take pity and grasp her hand.

"Time And Relative Dimensions In Space." I remind her, ignoring the look the Doctor gives me. "Could be back before dinner."

Her eyes widen down at me and she grins.


End file.
